That makes the neighborhood sound rather urban ugly, but nothing could be farther from the truth. Should I get a chance, I’ll post a picture of the view outside the window. (later: Voila! Un photo smile
The brasserie across the street is the first place we ever ate in France. We stumbled in after dropping out bags off at our hotel, and the waiter (btw, nobody, but nobody calls them “garcon” anymore) immediately pegged us for English. Perhaps it was the plaintive call for tea. More likely, it was my halting French. As in, “OMG, I’m speaking to someone for the first time ever outside of a class or French group. Anyway, this being Paris, he offered us a “L’anglais dejeuner” which turned out to be tea, buttered bread and a chocolate croissant. Good call on his part, of course, but a certain level of stubbornness on my part made me order a la carte as well (“See! I can speak French—I can read off a menu!), and we ended up splitting a Croque Monsieur, a sort of open-face ham and toasted cheese sandwich which was more than enough to last me at least until evening.
I had fun practicing a bit of French with the waiter/bartender/possible part-owner. Little things became adventurous: like finding out whether we could use our credit card (no, not a big enough bill), asking for more hot water, telling him that was enough but it tasted very good, and asking if we could pet the restaurant’s dog. Yep, they had a big old Alsatian named Rex sprawled out in the lobby, and we were so reminded of Puppy that we had to beg for a fluff fix. The locals clearly thought we were amusing, but hey, it’s been over 24 hours now. We miss her.
Speaking of the locals, the one thing that really strikes me about France is that it’s filled with French People. The old guys in the brasserie really do wear caps. They lean up against the rail in what can only be described as a Gallic sprawl, drinking their morning beer and tossing sugar cube wrappers on the ground. I’m not sure how all the old men managed that perpetual five o’clock shadow look. Maybe it’s something in the air, Oxy’s starting to affect that as well. Hmmmm….must talk to boy about the “no unshaven smootchie policy”.
While we were waiting for the room to get ready, we had a wander, ending up in the Sacre Coeur, at Montmarte. Padding about the medieval cobblestone streets, we found an bookstore, picked up a dual language Jeeves and Wooster novel (what fun!), then made the climb up Montmarte to the Cathedral on top. What a view (again, I’m hoping some of these pictures work out).
The Cathedral
The View
Really, not much more to say than that. If you’ve seen the panorama, you know what I mean. The climb gives it a bit of a feeling of accomplishment that hopping a tour bus doesn’t quite, I think.
We then went shopping, looking for some silk scarves and postcards.
Didn’t find anything that pleased just yet, but I’m thinking of more sensible shoes following a near pratfall on the cobblestones. Once again belying the French reputation for standoffishness, the locals immediately started up a chorus of concerned “Comme ce va?”, which would have been touching if I hadn’t been so embarrassed. Limping away on Oxy’s arm, I gave them a quick thumbs up and a tres bien which they repeated among themselves a few times before retiring back into their shop.
More French practice ensued at le marche, where the checkout lady proved friendly and utterly incognizant of the fact that me being able to string a question together about credit cards and cheese did not equate to my ability to rapidly decipher a multiple clause answer in the subjunctive (she could do credit cards, but they preferred cash, and she’d be happy to swipe my card for me. No, I didn’t need identification). Still, we made out eventually, which is a good thing because they had lots of yummy food I wanted to eat. I should explain that a “marche” is sorta like a supermarket except they sell gourmet cheese for 2 euros, wine you’d want to drink for 3 and artisan quality bread for 1.50. Our “plowman’s dinner” we just finished cost us all of 11 Euros, and that still gives us a bunch of fruit for dinner.
My, I guess a lot of things did happen today, especially considering we just got off the plane this morning. As I mentioned, that didn’t equate to much sleep, so we got an afternoon nap of sorts (um, Paris is romantic. That’s all I’ll say on this matter), then it was time to strap on the shoes and tour the area around the Moulin Rouge. We hied on up the hill again (*pant* *pant*), and passed the locals play boules, and toured a 12th century church with vaulted ceilings and all that usually cathedral stuff (hopefully, I’ll find a photo of it online, it was too dark for my camera).
Fresco on exterior of church
The area around Montmarte/Moulin Rouge is kinda touristy, although the buildings are real enough. It’s more a question of places named “Da Vinci café” and old dance halls reconditioned to appear more spotless than they probably were in the day.
We did get to hear one pianist, though, and I even met and exchanged harp talk with a Paraguayan harpist turned street performer, so there’s a least SOME music still there.
Still, it seems a shame to have such a historical area turn a bit boutique-y. C’est la vie, though. Disneyland it’s not.
After a quick snort of vin tres ordinaire (I have to admit, I had possibly unrealistic expectations there), we headed over to the Dali Museum and wandered around 300 odd original works of the man, as well as a collection of blue period Picasso’s. The Picassos, I quite liked. I’ve always been fond of his more famous stuff, but hadn’t realized the depth of his talent when applied to less cubist paintings. Very impressionistic, very much centered on how the eye perceives things. And how fascinating to see his work and Dali’s where they did so much of it (Montmarte was also a hangout for Toulouse Lautrec, and a bunch of others whose names you and I both know, but I have forgotten).
The Dalis were lots of fun, but very fatiguing to study. I admit to having mixed feelings about Dali. He certainly has many things to say, but I feel at times his showmanship gets in the way. Oddity for oddity’s sake, and all that. Perhaps in his own way, he was an early performance artist. How else to take a minature trompe de l’oil version of the self-same cathedral we had just visited, save with a movie about Dali (mostly him acting silly with his moustache and whatnot) playing where the altar would have been. Is his being absurdly self-congratulatory, or is he spoofing his own sense of ego? Or is he simply just being weird? Questions like this made my head spin after an hour or so there. Of course, it could have possibly been the effects of wine on a now-empty stomach razz
Well, I certainly do ramble. But it’s been a fun day. After Dali, we thought of finding a prix fixe dinner, but had forgotten that nearly all restaurants in France close by three and don’t open again until seven.
A Closed Restaurant that smelled SOOOOOO good sad
Hey, it’s their country, I’m not here to correct them. And it gave us an excuse to tuck into all that cheese. At least I’m pretty sure I’m walking most of this food off.
Liberte, Fraternite, Egalite et Gourmet!
V
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